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The tiltyard was bare, for now. Indistinct gossip and conversations were exchanged among the spectators who framed the lists; noble ladies and lords and all those who accompanied them. And Sansa was one of the lucky few who sat in the front row. Though the hedge knights were yet to emerge, Sansa could barely remain composed. Her smile, shining through the pale powder and the thin gloss of her makeup, was worn widely and honestly. She knew she’d be near standing out of her seat once the action began.
“Who do you think will be on the roster, Father?” Up until this point, Ned Stark would’ve expected his daughter’s anticipation left her to wholly disregard him. In the litter, gilded in sheen fabric that turned the surrounding world gold, Sansa would’ve sooner condemned Florian and Jonquil than cease her talk of how the joust will be “just like the songs”. Her expectations so high, Ned expected them to be dissatisfied by the dull, upcoming back-and-forth trotting.
“Jory was invited to participate. I know he will be included. Many of the Kingsguard, I’m sure, will also be out there,”
“Oh how marvelous. The Kingsguard, in their ivory and gold. They’ll look so gallant out there, I’m certain.”
With the orange bellow of a dozen slender, spiggoted horns, the hedge knights rode out into the lists, their mounts’ hooves brushing up the dust to reveal each splendid participant through a parting cloud of smoke. Although Sansa was not known for her skill with sums, there were many more hedgeknights than she could count. Each festooned in colorful gems, many of which Sansa knew not the names— although she was much more proficient in her knowledge of such precious stones than in maths— wreathed in metals gold, silver, and iron; and sat upon coursers and destriers similarly outfitted.
“It is even better than the songs,” Many of the knights wore pale blue or pink ribbons, fastened around their pauldrons for most. Sansa did not recognize the fabric until many of the knights rode closer to the stands. Favors, she realized, and each was gifted to a knight who was the object of some similarly awestruck girl’s affection. Most must’ve been given before the participants rode out. Sansa’s gaze did not leave the riders as she sunk a hand into her pocket to confirm that it held her thin handkerchief, smooth and gossamer in between her fingers.
With more riders populating the tiltyard, Sansa recognized more faces inside those glistening helms. She scanned each as they took their customary rounds in front of the stands. She had a fantastic view. She saw Jory, his armor not as stuffy as the others’, was unimpressive but his cloak, borrowed from Father, bore the direwolf sigil in proud blues and whites. If she took a moment of pause to glance at Eddard, she would’ve seen the genuine grin he seldom wore at these events.
Succeeded by him, and stark in contrast, was Ser Loras Tyrell. Although his horse was slender and sleek, it supported him and his massive cloak deftly. Heavy it hung from his shoulders, the blanket woven from hundreds and hundreds of forget-me-nots. They called him the Knight of Flowers, and aptly so. How gorgeous he was atop that steed, his silver armor with a bouquet of a cuirass captivating the tint of the blue sky. Any lady who had seen him was drawn to his golden-brown locks and that sweet face; yet even with them hidden underneath his rose-ornamented helm, he shone magnificently.
After him was Ser Gregor— that monstrous man did not garner as much praise or affection, especially not from Sansa. She gave him little mind as he was followed by Lord Renly in gold antlers, the Kingslayer in a gaudy gold cuirass with a lion enameled on it, Ser Splunk in his smelly suit of true fish scales, and Ser Barristan the Bold with his head raised high in his typical Kingsguard uniform, valiant as usual. After them was a man she did not count among those she expected to see; not a knight, not a member of the Kingsguard, and not someone to play these courteous games sung of by troubadours.
The Hound rode his destrier, adorned in very little in excess. He wore the same soot-grey chainmail as he’d been wearing since the king appeared in Winterfell. The visor of his hounds-helm stayed up above his brow. And behind his back, unlike any other time Sansa had seen him, a simple green cloak of cotton splayed in his wake. Other than this, he wore a heavy scowl. His expression did not match Sansa’s as she smiled brightly at the sight of her beloved Joffrey’s dog. She quickly retrieved her hand from her pocket to wave. The previous night, the Hound escorted her to her chambers. Although King’s Landing is all she’s dreamt of— a city full of royalty and feasts and chivalry and handsome men and, most importantly, gallant knights— she felt uneasy at many times. She was far from home and oft missed her mother, although she’d never complain of it outwardly. She realized she missed her brothers who shared her and her mother’s Tully coloring. The Southron climate was a warm welcome upon arrival, but she came to realize she was homesick for Winterfell. And the godswood, it was so underwhelming here. Although her dismay with it could never match her father’s, Sansa was alarmed when she learned of the Red Keep’s stump of an altar. She scoffed at their “hearty oak” as it paled in comparison to the North’s weirwood, everlasting and imperious. If the weirwood were a knight, she thought, it would be the most gallant of them all.
But last night, during their stroll, she felt almost comforted in his presence. The presence of this guard dog, assigned to her out of Joffrey’s indolence— no, no, she would not accept that. Joffrey was expected elsewhere, by his queen mother and king father, at a set time. She could not expect her prince to neglect his duty for her sake. The Hound cast a great fear over her when their walk began, but it soon evaded when he told her how he earned his scar. The fear she held for him was replaced by sadness; her heart felt heavy and rheumy in her chest when he described how his brother pressed his face against the hot wood of their hearth fire.
“He was no true knight,” She whispered to him. The way he reacted, she couldn’t tell if he felt consoled or amused.
Sansa was rung out of her thoughts when the non-knight broke from the spiral of jousters to approach her. She felt her cheeks flush and her smile drop. What is he doing? Why is he coming here? His resolve was as steady as the gauntlets that clutched his reins.
“Little bird,” He addressed her in a flat tone.
”What… What has brought you over here, Ser?”
“You know well that isn’t my title, girl. You should also know why I rode here; you are the one who waved me over. An accident, was it? Waving at the Knight o’ Pansies, were you?”
“No, no. I did indeed wave to you,” She looked down to her skirts, at her pockets. “I…. have something for you,”
“Get on with it, then,”
From her pocket, she took out the handkerchief.
“A favor, for you?” She held her arm out, the square of fabric flowing gently beyond the railing.
“For me?” His head turned as he glanced around the arena. “You wouldn’t rather wave over the Tyrell boy? Or your prince’s queer deer uncle?”
“Queer? I don’t find him so strange….?”
“Sure, then. Give it here,”
“No, no, I’m meant to fasten it. You’d better not remove yourself from your steed,”
And at that, the Hound rode narrowly closer to the barrier and leaned as far off his horse as he safely could. Sansa’s hands felt the cold steel of his pauldron as they searched for a good spot to tie her favor to. After she secured the handkerchief in a tight bow, she returned to her seat. “There,”
“It’s frilly,” He eyed it contemptuously.
“You don’t like my concession?”
“I have fared decently enough with my armor, little bird… but I will see that your favor was well-earned.”
He pivoted briskly to rejoin the parade of jousters.
Eddard leaned forward, an eyebrow raised at his daughter.
”The Lannister boy’s guard?”
“Joffrey’s retainer is very kind, truthfully. Not what you’d expect from such a man,”
“I wasn’t aware you brought a favor to give,”
“It was impromptu,”
The jousts began. Hours of matches ensued; one man racing towards the other, separated only by the tilt, until they collided and their lances burst into thousands of tiny splinters. Shortly, Clegane assumed position for his joust. Against the Kingslayer, whom many bet for. Silent, like no other spectator, Sansa was throughout the tourney. Knights reeled off their saddles, cried out, and bled— some with worse injuries. Earlier, in the wake of the Mountain, a boy plummeted and died in the tiltyard to the crowd’s shock. Around her, children and women sobbed for the boy. Sansa sat, unwaveringly quiet, like the lady she was taught to be.
But now, her chest swelled as she inhaled a wide-mouthed gasp. She might as well have shouted when Jaime Lannister’s lance met the Hound’s. The latter evaded without harm, although he did struggle to remain seated.
Sansa readjusted herself.
“I knew the Hound would win,” She remarked to her father.
“Your favor did him well,”
Another pair headed the lists; Ser Gregor and Ser Loras. The largest man Sansa had ever seen, like a monolith in build, the Mountain Who Rides sat like a pillar on his poor pony. In contrast, the lean Ser Loras waved cheerily to the crowd, his smile beaming with his helm under his silver-clad arm. Ser Gregor remained impassive.
In a sequence so rapid Sansa was hardly sure she’d witnessed it all, the Mountain fell after each galloped their rounds. His mount swerved here and there, it moaned and neighed, and it failed him when Ser Loras’ meticulously-placed lance struck Ser Gregor’s cuirass, dead-center. The destrier whaled as it and the Mountain crashed to its hooves, steel colliding with flesh colliding with ground.
Ser Loras raised his visor, grinning again to the fanatic onlookers. Squeals and shouts left the crowd as he circled his second ride through the yard.
When Ser Gregor finally rose to his feet, he stood with his shoulders high above his ears. If he hadn’t been so imposing, his temper would be like that of a toddler’s. Beckoning his squire, he commanded his sword. He plunged the blade into his horse’s neck, it whined as loudly as the Great Bells before it returned to the earth.
Ser Loras shouted for his own sword as the Mountain strode towards him. The boy wore fear on his face like the trees beyond the Wall wear white bark. His eyes, still as dazzling of a blue as before, were wide with horror. Rightly so. Ser Gregor swung his great sword unceremoniously, the rage swaying his tree-trunk arms without clear direction.
Steel slid against steel in a screech, not at all as romantic as the competition before. The Hound’s sword met his brother’s claymore before the blades slithered off each other. The younger Clegane stood before Ser Loras. The elder swung without caution, blows bouncing off the hounds-helm. However, Sandor did not once strike his brother’s head. His stance was defensive as he endured; it seemed like he could’ve persisted for hours.
At last, Ser Gregor came to his senses when he swung his claymore against empty air. The Hound was kneeling now at the bellowing sound of King Robert’s “battlefield voice”.
“Stop this madness!”
Now, with the pair surrounded by the Kingsguard, the duel ceased.
“Is the Hound the champion now….?” Sansa asked Ned meekly.
“No, Ser Loras and the Hound will have the final joust.”
Eddard’s assumption was proved incorrect.
“I owe you my life. The day is yours, Ser,” The Knight of Flowers approached the Hound in the field. Out of his armor, Ser Loras now donned his white gambeson, studded with tiny golden roses. One could wonder if his small clothes were just as lavishly embellished.
“I am no Ser,” The Hound huffed at the boy. Off their steeds, the Tyrell must’ve been a head shorter than the Hound.
Nonetheless, Sandor Clegane was named champion of the jousting portion of the tourney. Never before had he been the object of such a celebratory roar. Every lord, lady, peasant, child, jouster, and squire alike shouted his praises. And never before had he been commended so vocally for his valiance. His gesture of sparing the Knight of Flowers from his hulking brother had earned him a new reputation.
•*•*•*•
After the tourney’s other activities— a melee and an archery competition— a final celebration commenced. Traders, merchants, and artisans set up shop in a long valley of huts and stands that stretched far beyond the horizon. Eddard walked alongside Sansa, glancing with little mind at the vendors closest to the Red Keep.
Standing at a merchant’s lazily-assembled tent was the Hound. He mulled in the face of a stout merchant— perhaps he was haggling? No longer in his ashy armor, he wore a similarly thick gambeson. It looked much more comfortable.
“Mister Hound!” Sansa called out to him. She expected to see a clamor of commons around him, cheering for his victory. But he stood alone in the road. “Congratulations on your victory. It was well-deserved. You were so…. so……”
“Gallant?”
“Yes! So gallant! The way you protected Ser Loras from the frightening Ser Gregor— I know you take no vows, but I would’ve mistaken you for a knight, how chivalrous you were,”
He stared her down with the same expression, or lack thereof, that he held the previous night.
“How are you spending your coin? I’m sure the victor’s purse was heavy,” She tried moving the conversation elsewhere. Hopefully, she hadn’t offended him.
“Trying to buy some godsawful ale from this pig,”
“There’s always abundant wine at dinner in the Red Keep. Why not return to the castle?”
“That shite? Your golden boy drinks a dozen a night without getting the littlest bit tipsy. The king’s the only one who drinks real mead in the keep, and he’s not open to sharing.” The Hound exchanged however many silvers that clinked against each other in his leather gloves for a large bottle of ale. The merchant offered him a set of glasses, but was met with refusal. The bottle’s mouth pressed against the Hound’s as he gulped down the ale. Sansa looked up at him, bewildered. “What? Feeling left out?” He extended the bottle to her. “I don’t mind missing a sip or two,”
“No, no, that’ll be fine,” Ned stepped in between his daughter and the Hound. “Sansa, it’s late. Let’s return to the Hand’s Tower now.”
“Goodnight, Mister Hound,” She took care not to call him ‘Ser’ and grinned. “I hope you appreciate your win— and your beverage.”
Eddard reached an arm across Sansa’s shoulders, directing her away to the Red Keep. As Sansa’s gaze left the Hound, she thought about the thick gambeson he wore, and the armor he didn’t. She had hoped to maybe reacquire her handkerchief, but it was nowhere to be seen.
•*•*•*•
It was the early hours of the morning when Sandor entered the Red Keep. The castle was quiet, the clopping of his graceless trek was the only noise in the hall. He stumbled only slightly as he made it through the oak door of his bedchambers. The comically large bottle of ale, near empty, was left on the dresser beside his cindery chainmail and the coal hounds-helm.
Among all the grey and black, Sansa’s rosy favor stood starkly. He was quick to leave it in his chamber before attending the vendors’ alleys. He couldn’t say why. But even in his stupor, he found it vital that the favor was to stay there, safe.